Verse 1

The orchard gathers amber, the fields are turning gold,

A russet wind goes wandering where summer used to hold.

You bring the last red apples; I bring the thyme and grain,

We fill the quiet baskets before the autumn rain.

Chorus

Come, take my hand through the turning year,

The leaves fall softly, the skies grow clear.

One heart in harmony, two voices near,

We’ll keep this season warm, my dear.

Verse 2

The geese write their departure across the open blue,

The vines release their sweetness; the hills wear copper hues.

You hum beside the doorway; I answer from the stair,

And all the house remembers the kindness of the air.

Chorus

Come, take my hand through the turning year,